


Holding Each Other Together

by MissCrazyWriter321



Category: Timeless (TV 2016)
Genre: Canonical Character Death, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Inconvenient Realizations, Lucy Preston Needs A Hug, Romance, They're both damaged but that's okay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-29
Updated: 2018-05-29
Packaged: 2019-05-15 04:04:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,698
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14783264
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissCrazyWriter321/pseuds/MissCrazyWriter321
Summary: The walk from the couch to his room has taken every last ounce of her strength, and now, she stares at the door helplessly. It’s ridiculous, she thinks, willing herself to push, to knock, to do anything at all, but she can’t.





	Holding Each Other Together

**Author's Note:**

> I’ve been working on this for weeks. It was supposed to be a short comfort piece after the heart-wrenching finale, but then Lucy decided to have an emotional crisis, so the next thing I knew, it was almost 1700 words. Oops. Anyway, I hope you enjoy!
> 
> Disclaimer: I own my ideas, and nothing else!

She lingers outside his doorway for almost ten minutes.

 

It’s not that she feels like she can’t come in. Not now. Not after he’s let her in so many times. Not after earlier in the day, when he’d been the only one holding her together. He… She means a lot to him. She knows this, even if she’s not willing to accept exactly how much. Not yet. But the fact is, since that first night in his room, she’s never hesitated. Always barges in as if she owns the place, and she can admit, if only to herself, that the first time was to see if he’d let her.

 

He did.

 

He does.

 

Every time.

 

Except for the occasional quip, he never once complains about her making herself at home in his space, and sometimes, she lets herself wonder what that means. (But never for too long. Never long enough to answer the question.)

 

So it isn’t uncertainty or insecurity that has her lingering outside his doorway tonight. It’s exhaustion. Deep, suffocating exhaustion she feels down to her bones. Her soul. (Amy. Jessica. Jiya. Wyatt. Emma. Her mother. Rufus. Names flicker through her mind, images of loss or rage along with each. How can she keep going like this? How much more can she stand to lose?)

 

The walk from the couch to his room has taken every last ounce of her strength, and now, she stares at the door helplessly. It’s ridiculous, she thinks, willing herself to push, to knock, to do anything at all, but she can’t.

 

A noise at the end of the hallway startles her, and she quickly pushes forward, adrenaline pumping for a few short moments. The last thing she wants to do is explain to Jiya, or Agent Christopher, or worst of all, Wyatt, (either Wyatt. Because one version of her ex living in the bunker with her isn’t bad enough, apparently,) why she’s lingering outside Flynn’s doorway.

 

She closes the door behind her, and sags against it, eyes drifting shut. After a beat, she hears a flutter of pages, a soft thud as a book is set aside, and steady footsteps as he comes to stand behind her. Close, but not quite touching.

 

“Lucy.” It isn’t a question. He knows why she’s there, maybe more than she does.

 

Instead of answering aloud, she turns to face him, studying his features. To her surprise, his eyes are red-rimmed, and for the first time, she remembers that he and Rufus were something like friends. Maybe not there yet, but close enough, and… How long has it been since he’s had any friends but her?

 

She grapples for words that won’t come, because there aren’t any. Not for this. But then, the two of them haven’t needed words for a long time.

 

That should scare her.

 

Probably will scare her, later, when she’s had time to grieve.

 

And yet.

 

She steps forward, arms coming around his waist, and presses her face to his chest. He meets her halfway, cupping the back of her head, resting his other hand on her back. Holding her together once again.

 

But that isn’t fair to him.

 

She pulls back slightly, still keeping her arms around him, and sits, tugging him with her. As always, he follows her lead, settling on the floor. It takes a bit of shuffling, a bit of nudging, but finally, they end up by his bed, leaning against the side of it. Then, she cups his face, guiding him to rest his head on her shoulder.

 

He does, even as he wraps his free arm around her, tugging her even closer.

 

There.

 

Now they’re holding each other together.

 

For a long time, they say nothing, each caught up in their own grief. His warm breath against her neck is shaky, and she thinks she feels a few hot tears on her skin, though she knows he’ll deny it later. It’s easier to focus on him then on the ache in her soul, and besides, she thinks she’s out of tears. (How long did they stay there, on that filthy warehouse floor, with him holding her close? His shoulder must have burned, his knees must have ached, and still, he held her. And now, again, they’re on the floor, holding on for dear life. But why is he doing all of this?)

 

He shifts slightly, and his nose brushes her throat. It tickles. Without quite meaning to, she giggles, then presses her lips tightly together. He goes absolutely still, and for a moment, she’s afraid she offended him. Then slowly, deliberately, he repeats the motion.

 

This time, she’s prepared, and she manages to stifle the noise, but she twitches, just slightly. It’s enough. She can feel his smile against her neck, and it suddenly strikes her how intimate this moment is. They’re so close, so very close, and she wants…. She wants….

 

But she doesn’t know if she wants to pull away or pull him closer, so she does neither, just waits to see what he’ll do.

 

After a beat, he raises his head, nuzzling his way up her neck, to right by her ear. Every touch is feather-light, and she bites her lip, desperately trying to keep from reacting.

 

Fails.

 

In defeat, she dissolves into giggles, and he lifts his head completely. When she composes herself enough to look at him, he’s grinning like a proud schoolboy, and it’s enough to send her into another fit of laughter, because this giant of a man who has killed without hesitation is so childishly happy that tickling her, of all things, made her laugh.

 

It’s ridiculous.

 

(She kind of loves him for it.)

 

The thought is unbidden, unwanted, and enough to chase all of her newfound humor far away. Did she really think that?

 

Yes, she did, but it doesn’t mean she means it, right? She doesn’t-she can’t-

 

She can’t.

 

It’s like the warehouse all over again, a steady scream in her head: “I can’t, I can’t, I can’t-!”

 

She has to get away from him. His arm is still wrapped around her, his face is still close enough that she could kiss him if she wanted, and it’s too much, too close, she can’t even breathe.

 

With a little too much force, she pulls away from him, rising unsteadily to her feet. He tries to follow, to reach for her, to steady her, but she stumbles back a half-step. “No-” She chokes out, and oh, she hates the way his face falls, the pain and panic warring on his features. But he stops moving, holds up his hands placatingly, a sign that he won’t push.

 

“Lucy….” Soft. Pleading. Raw, in a way she can’t let herself think too much about.

 

“I have to… I need to… I can’t… Flynn, I-” She’s a teacher. A professor. She can give a lecture to fifty students who couldn’t care less without faltering over a single word. She’s had to teach class while sick, while heartbroken, while angry, and she’s pulled it off every time. But now, now her words fail her.

 

(This is why they don’t use words.)

 

He swallows hard. Exhales. And softens his expression, into something more like disappointment than pain. There’s so much understanding in his warm eyes that it steadies her, for a moment. “It’s okay, Lucy. Do what you need to.”

 

It’s too forgiving, too gentle, too kind. Why is he doing this? Again, the question from before: why is he even here?

 

(She doesn’t dare ask it, not now, not when she thinks she knows the answer all too well, and she can’t handle this. Not again. Not tonight.)

 

And yet.

 

She’s reminded of a phone call, a few short weeks before. When she told Wyatt to do whatever he needed to work things out with Jessica.

 

It isn’t the same. She knows that. And yet… Whatever she’s going through, she refuses to hurt Flynn anywhere close to the way Wyatt hurt her.

 

(She doesn’t hate Wyatt, and her future self has made it pretty clear that she will forgive him, will trust him again. But she won’t deny that he’s hurt her, even when he was so clearly trying to do the right thing.)

 

Besides, his presence soothes the aches the day has left in her, and she doesn’t want to give that up. Not yet. 

 

Taking a breath, she makes her decision.

 

“Do you know how to make cookies?”

 

It clearly isn’t what he expects her to say. Honestly, it isn’t what she expects to say either, but it’s out there, so she decides to roll with it.

 

“Cookies?” He frowns. “Yes?”

 

“Well, I don’t. Will you…” She feels her cheeks heat, knows this is more than a little random, but she needs to get out of his room. She needs space. But she still wants to spend time with him, to show him that she isn’t pushing him away completely. “Will you show me?”

 

He blinks. A soft smile tugs at his lips, and he nods, the warmth returning to his eyes. “Of course. But, ah…” He falters, glances at the door warily, then looks back to her. “If Wyatt wanders into the kitchen for a late night snack….”

 

“Then he does,” she says simply. That, at least, she will not worry about. To lighten the mood, she adds, “But he can’t have the cookies.”

 

He chuckles, finally making his way to her side, carefully leaving her enough space that she won’t feel cramped. “Good.”

 

It’s unbelievable, how light she feels, after such a heavy day, and her panic moments before. “Don’t worry.” She grins. “You won’t have to share.”

 

And she means the cookies, she does, but his expression shifts to something wide and vulnerable, as he searches her eyes cautiously. Hardly daring to hope. She meets his gaze steadily, letting him look. She doesn’t know how she feels about him, not really, and she thinks he must see that. But she trusts him.

 

Whatever he sees, it must be enough, because his smile grows, warm and hopeful. “Good,” he repeats, not pushing her further, just following her out into the hallway.

 

Maybe, just maybe, they’ll be okay.

**Author's Note:**

> I've tried to rewrite that ending a dozen times. I've tried to make her push him away for longer than .5 seconds. I've finally given up. Overall, I'm pretty happy with this story, and I hope you enjoyed it too. :) Thank you for reading!


End file.
